


Kinktober Two, Electric Boogaloo

by OwlEspresso



Category: Critical Role (Web Series), Final Fantasy XIV, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening, The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Blindfolds, Body Worship, Feelings, Friends With Benefits, Grinding, Master/Pet, Mirror Sex, Mirrors, Multi, Nipple Play, Outdoor Sex, Porn with Feelings, Sensory Deprivation, Vaginal Fingering, thigh riding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:04:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 10,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OwlEspresso/pseuds/OwlEspresso
Summary: A kinky drabble for every day, featuring an assortment of series and characters!





	1. Ardbert, Body Worship

**Author's Note:**

> You can also read this on my tumblr, found [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/). I tend to post headcanons and updates there which I don't here!

Your quarters, over the past few months, have been a source of comfort and constant stability. Only here can you find solace from the constant, ceaseless wave of combat. It seems that every day there's a few foe to fight, someone else who needs you to perform some idle task.

Your room is the one place where you can curl up under the sheets and not worry about the rest of the world for the next few hours. There are no sin eaters to deal with, no jobs that need doing—only you and all of your favorite things.

You look at Ardbert with a lazy fondness and think that he definitely counts as one of those. By some miracle of magic, he’s melded back into reality, gifted a physical form by some merciful higher power. You’d like to know how it happened, but you’re not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. 

“They’re so… round,” you murmur, gaze lingering on his chest. The blankets are soft against your front side, and the bed is more than big enough for the both of you. Ardbert had stubbornly insisted on taking the couch for the first few nights, but you’d eventually persuaded him into sharing the bed. He’d been stuck in agonizing limbo for an unbearable amount of time, like hell you were going to let him be uncomfortable for the sake of your chastity. The thought nearly makes you roll your eyes.

“What?” he tilts his head and squints at you, a book in his hands, held above his pert pectorals.

“These,” you unabashedly reach forward, hand splaying above his heart. The suddenness of it makes him jolt, muscles twitching before he settles back down. His cheeks flush a pale pink and he turns his attention back to his novel. 

You press down, angling your hand so your palm is above his nipple. Your eyelids droop, languidly focused on the sweet curve of his pecs. 

“I’m glad I can touch you like this,” deciding to push your luck, you shuffle closer and place a kiss on the side of his stomach. It’s soft, but you feel muscle mass underneath from the years he’d spent in combat. Just remembering all he’s been through causes your heart to strike with pain. You’ll never let him go through anything like that again. He’s only allowed to feel good, now, “Because I’ve really wanted to, all this time.”

His lower lip trembles and his eyes shut as you continue to trail kisses over his skin. Your hands idly stroke his stomach. This isn't the first time you've seen him shirtless, so you know he's covered in scars. One next to his bellybutton, one below his right pectoral. Every one of them hurt, a dose of pain you were unable to shelter him from.

His body tenses and shifts, and for a moment you swear you hear the smallest of moans. The sound grounds you to reality, reminds you that you'll never let him feel like that again. 

His fingers are curled tight around the leather binding of his book, knuckles gone white.

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” he huffs. Your lips wrap around his nipple. The novel drops to the side and his back arches as you give a good, firm suck. His voice pitches the highest you’ve ever heard it, contorting into a little squeal. Your hand comes up to cup his unattended breast, thumbing over his neglected nipple, “Alright, it may get you somewhere.”

You lavished the broad of your tongue against the perked nub. His hands grasped your shoulders, his palms calloused and warm against your skin. He doesn’t push or pull you, merely rests his touch there. Your hands play against his abdomen, tenderly stroking every perfect inch of skin. Your nails delicately drag tease his sides and he wiggles underneath you, hips twitching as though longing to roll upwards.

The mattress dips ever so slightly as you throw a knee over his waist to straddle him, hands sliding up to cup his chest. 

He’s the very picture of debauchery, hands dropped back to the bed, curling into the sheets. His cheeks are flushed deep pink, wet lips slightly parted. 

“Do you wanna keep going?” you purr, rubbing his areola with your thumbs in gentle circles. He exhaled a shaking breath and shut his eyes, head lolling back onto the pillow.

“...Please,” his voice was a reverent whisper. His hands reached up, fingers curled around your wrists. Not to stop or encourage, but just to feel.


	2. Ardyn, in front of a mirror

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a very, very long time since I've written for Ardyn! Which is certainly shame, given how much I appreciate and love him.
> 
> You can also read this on my tumblr, found [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/). I tend to post headcanons and updates there which I don't here!

“Just like that,” Ardyn coos, sanguine in your ears, “Just like that, my sweet,” His hand clutches your jaw to the side, your neck forced with the motion. You know he doesn’t have to manhandle you like this. He has the strength of eons piled behind hum, but you don’t give him a chance to use it, pliant in his arms. 

He gets off on the control he has. His lips press against the side of your neck, his kisses short and spread. The pinpricks of pleasure coax you into tilting your head to the side, giving him more room to kiss and bite and claim as he pleases. His other hand clutches at your waist, holding you tight to his body.

You can feel his cock throb against your back, and wonder with a mix of dread and eagerness if he’ll actually even fit. 

His lips pull back and he sucks a deep mark onto your skin. You whimper and wiggle in his hold, head tilting further to the side, eyes shut tight. The once fond kisses dissolve into carnal bites, intending to mark you over and over and over again. His warm, calloused hand slides up your bare stomach to grasp at your chest, squeezing a nipple tight between his forefinger and thumb. 

You gasp, rolling your hips back. The friction manages to pull a low moan from him, his palm rubbing over the hardened nub in a way that makes you wiggle and whine.

“Open your eyes,” he growls deep and you listen, keen to listen to every little order, every little whim. The mirror rested against the wall is lined with ornate silver, the room’s dim lighting catching and glinting off the embellishments. You can see yourself crumpled into his embrace, a pathetic mess as he touches and pulls at you as he pleases. Your thighs tremble, cunt slick with need.

“And a minx, atop of everything else,” Ardyn teases. His calloused fingers finally reach between your legs. Your knees tremble as the tender heat building deep in your lower belly grows and grows, head lolled back against his broad shoulder.

You wonder what your friends would say if they saw you in the grasp of such a terrible man. And deeper in your mind, you wonder if they’d like to watch, an audience comprised of more than just the mirror neatly tucked in the corner.


	3. Vax'ildan, Sensory Deprivation

“Stay still,” Vax’ildan orders, but it’s soft and sounds more like a siren’s call than a command. 

You can hear his footsteps against the lush carpet on the other side of the room, approaching. Your hands twitch, itching to reach up and tear off the blindfold—but this is a dance that’s familiar by now. Disobeying his commands won’t earn you the pleasure you so desperately crave. 

The creak of the mattress tells you that he’s climbed atop bed, and you hold your breath. 

A cold hand brushes over your stomach and you tense. A shiver rolls up your spine.

The juxtaposition in temperature makes you squirm, thighs rubbing together. He’s hardly touched you but you grow moist from the trepidation. A second hand joins the first, venturing from the center of your abdomen to your sides.

“Vax,” you sigh. His fingers brush against your skin, tantalizingly light, leaving room for so much more. The blankets are warm against your shoulders as you arch your back, seeking more.

He pulls away and you whine in protest, teeth clutching your lower lip.

“Be patient,” he chides. The smirk is audible in his voice. Your aggravation flares and you instinctively jerk a knee up, bumping it into his hip. “You little—” he hisses. One of his hands snaps down onto your knee, shoving it onto the bed, causing you to squeak in surprise, “I’ll leave you alone if you keep misbehaving,” you give a small whine, because that’s the one thing you don’t want to happen—the one thing you can’t bear.

Soft lips tease over your inner thighs, making the muscle jump and tense. Your fingers curl into the sheets, desperately resisting the temptation to again arch your back in search of more, more and more. His slender fingers played over the knee he’d shoved down, roaming downwards and over your calf in a silky caress.

His tongue traces invisible shapes over your skin, coming tantalizingly close to where you want him most—where you throb with carnal need. The air cools over where he’s trailed, a strange bundle of sensations that all winds up making you wetter in the end.

You want to say something, ask something, beg him, but the words are like cotton on your tongue. 

He pulls his tongue away and you whimper, holding your breath as you feel the dip in the mattress change as he shifts. The hand on your knee drifts up to your side, splaying out on your hip. 

“Stay still,” is what the touch says, and you push yourself to obey it.

“Vax,” your voice dips into a shameless whine, feeling your tether beginning to grow tight, “Please, I need you to—”

His hand is warm by now when it rests over your abdomen to keep you pressed to the bed, his slender digits spread out. You take in a deep breath and let your arms go limp to you side.

“That’s better,” he says, as if meagerly praising a child. You don’t care. You’re willing to lap up any little bit of affection he’s willing to give you, breath quivering as you feel the mattress dip on either side of you. He’s straddling you, you realize with certain elation, “Though you’ve been a really difficult customer so far, I think you may deserve a reward.” His hands touch your wrists, fingers curling around them before beginning to glide upwards, still cool against your warm skin.

You feel the blood pumping in your ears and ever so slightly raise your hips, desperate to get any kind of friction. 

“Vax,” you sigh. You feel his hard cock resting on your stomach as he bends his knees to lower himself onto your hips.

He gives your right breast a deaf squeeze, fingers dexterously pinching your nipple. Your voice pitches into a pitiful, breathy moan, squirming against the lavish sheets as his teeth gently bite into the crook of your neck. Blunt nails trail over the sides of your chest, circling around your nipples as he sucks a mark to your skin. 

You wish you could see his face. You wish you could know if you affect him nearly as much as he does you.

His touches soon lighten, slowing down—and then his hips lift from you completely. The warm, welcome weight of his dick resting atop of you makes you cry out, thighs tensing and hips jerking in search for him. 

“No,” he tuts, “We’ve talked about this before, remember?” you’re met with the hard press of his arm over your waist, forcing you to the bed as he bites hard on your hip, and then again, and again, not bothering to kiss or lick any, giving no comfort at all. Your fingers curl tight into the sheets until he at last pulls away and settles in between your legs. 

And he doesn’t touch you. You can feel him sitting here, but you can’t figure out what he’s doing, if he’s going to come closer and when, and it drives you insane. A minute passes, then another, and another, and you soon feel tears of frustration burning at the corners of your eyes. 

A finger glides up your inner thigh and you nearly choke, senses humming back to life. You don’t know if he’ll string you along again, don’t know if he’ll withdraw before giving you but you really want—but your mind zeroes onto the here and the now, the feeling of his touch on your skin and how much you love it, love him.


	4. Felix, Sex Outside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also read this on my tumblr, found [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/). I tend to post headcanons and updates there which I don't here! 
> 
> Feedback, kudos, reblogs and the like are immensely appreciated and motivate me to continue writing!

“Fuck—” Felix curses, gloved fingers curling into the lush grass. His eyebrows nettled in concentration, lips parted around quick pants. Your hands hold tight to his hips, his pants bunched around his knees. 

You feel every flex and strain of the muscle under his skin.You do your best to stay coherent enough to admire his toned physique, but he’s making it so hard to think.

His sword lays off to the side, where it clattered atop of your weapon. Your sparring session feels like a distant memory, buried underneath the tumbling pleasure.

A slight breeze rolls over the forest and rustles the leaves in the trees. Your gaze moves from his face and to the side, lingering on the grey clouds which tumble above. 

“Felix,” you sigh his name. The slap of skin against skin echoes through the clearing, only the trees and their twining branches around to bear witness to your depravity. Every snap of his hips sends his cock drives the breath from your lungs.

You love him with your nails which rake over his skin, lips opening in a silent, desperate plea. He doesn’t close the gap and whisper sweet praises unto you. He doesn’t press his forehead to your own like a lover might.

“You know—when you asked me to spar, I didn’t think this was what you had in mind—” you’re cut off by a particularly violent thrust, choking off into silence. He shifts his weight onto purely his knees, his hands grasping your hips and violently pulling you into his dick. The new angle knocks the breath out of you. He sends you back to the ground, nestled in the grass to rut into like you’re a bitch in heat.

Your hands drop to your sides, fingers curling and tearing into the grass. He yanks one of his gloves off, his thumb pressing to your clit. Your hips writhe and wiggle, bucking to no avail. He controls the pace and the speed, and all you can do is fall back and break into pieces as you feel your orgasm nipping at your heels.

You wonder if things will be different after this. You wonder if he’ll hold your hand, tell you he loves you—

Those thoughts vanish when you cum, slipping through the cracks like Dimitri’s sanity rolling down a hill. The breath is knocked out of you, cum gushing over his cock. 

He joins you a moment later, hips yanking out of you before he spills over the grass.

You lay back, undone and exhausted. The afterglow that normally accompanies sex is diluted by the chilled breeze that combs over your body. You stare up at the sky, his harsh breathing mere background noise. After a few moments, you can hear the shuffling of cloth as he puts himself back together, does up his laces and belts. He’ll leave you here, won’t he? Leave you to the trees and shrews and dust of the earth.

You suppose you should have expected that, he never—

Hands grasp your panties and shove them back up your thighs.

“Felix?” your gaze flickers up to him, eyes wide, lips slightly parted.

“I wouldn’t be so cruel as to leave you here,” he informs you quietly. You reach your hands down to help, straightening out the elastic waistband while he brings up your pants.

“Thank you,” you murmur, a warm feeling swells in your chest. 

“Of course,” he replies. You can tell he’s trying to keep up his walls, maintain that cold demeanor. His eyebrows are still dipped into that ever-present scowl.

But there’s a softness in his eyes that betrays him. And guilt on his expression you know you’ll have to talk about later.


	5. Estinien, FWB

Estinien smells like smoked firewood. In the dark of the room, you can still see the white strands of his hair pool over the pillows and sheets.They lovingly frame his face, and the dim lighting catches just right off his eyelashes as they flutter. His eyes are glazed, bangs slicked to his forehead.

You’d collapsed onto his chest after riding him, his cock still lodged comfortably inside you. By now, he’d cumbersomely roll you off of him and pull out, before rushing to leave. It makes you feel bitter and unappreciated each and every time, but bringing that up would imply that this relationship was anything more than physical.

You’re not complaining, though. His chest is broad and warm. His body is a comfortable pillow. Even in the cold climate of Ishgard, he seems to radiate heat, to the point where you don’t feel the need to start up the fireplace. Your hands tentatively reach up to rest on his shoulders, gaze admiring the angle of his jaw and the shape of his nose. Rarely ever do you get to savor the afterglow with him, so this is a moment to be coveted and treasured, a moment you want to remember everything about.

Alas, the urge to shut your eyes is growing stronger with every passing moment. If you don’t get up and start moving around, then you’ll undoubtedly fall asleep. As much as you don’t want to acknowledge it, there’s work to be done outside these four walls, and you’re not going to get anywhere by taking a nap. Even if it’s a nap with Estinien. 

After all, he’d never stopped to nap with you! Always rushing off, mumbling about places he had to be, people he had to meet, half-hearted excuses that made the bed feel colder and colder each time.

You brace a hand on the mattress and begin to very reluctantly pull away—

Only to be stopped and tugged back by a strong arm around your waist. Estinien stares down at you with something akin to amusement as he registers your shocked expression.

“You have somewhere better to be, I assume?” he says languidly.

“I have work to do,” you grumble at him. Like he has any ground to stand on when he flees from your embrace almost immediately, “You’re usually gone by now, anyways,” as much as you wanted to avoid the implied emotional attachment, you can’t keep the bitterness from your voice. He quiets, looking surprised for a moment, before he settles back into the sheets.

“Mine apologies,” he sighs and you gape at him. Estinien? Apologizing? 

“Who are you and what have you done with the real Estinien?” you press and he scoffs, glaring down at you.

“I do believe only the ‘real Estinien’ would know that you like it when I—” he begins, undoubtedly about to go into great detail. You frantically reach up and press a finger to his lips, silencing him.

“It was just a joke!” you insist, none too eager to endure his teasing.

“You shouldn’t make such blase jests unless you’re prepared to take them in return,” he reminds you. The hand on your back begins to stroke up and down, tenderly caressing your heated skin, “...I’ve… decided to stay simply because I want to,” his admission makes your eyes widen. 

His mere confession makes you feel warmer and more joyous than any tumble in the sheets you’ve had. You rub your cheek into his peck and rest your ear against his chest to listen to his heartbeat.

“And because you keep my cock much warmer than it would be if I were alone,” his voice rumbles deep in his chest and you make an outraged sound, lightly smacking his shoulder. It’s little more than a tap, most of your strength sapped by your… rigorous prior activities. You let your weight rest on him entirely, savoring the firm, hard lines of muscle against your body.


	6. Mollymauk, Thigh-fucking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [My blog](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/), where you can find ask memes and headcanon lists that aren't on ao3!

“Molly—” his name comes out a desperate plea.

It’s choked by the grind of cloth against your wet cunt. Your eyes shut, back thrown tight to the polished wooden wall. The library is silent besides your little cries and his slow, languid teasing.

“Mhm,” his eyelids are lowered, lips drawn into a saccharine smile as he watches you desperately wriggle back and forth, “Keep going. Keep fucking yourself on my thigh, babydoll.”

His lips press to your cheek and your jawline, sharpened canines roaming over your sweat-slicked skin. His hands wander, squeezing your chest and straying to your sides, teasing you with the tips of his nails. It sends a shiver down your spine and he coos in adoration, tongue rasping over the crook of your neck. Your head lolls to the side, eyes shutting, surrendering yourself to the incendiary pleasure.

Your lips tremble around a slow moan, eyes fluttering shut as he returned with a kiss, plump lips rolling against yours. His forked tongue darts out and your lips fall open in a loud moan, feeling your orgasm press ever closer. 

You’re about to cum on his thigh, pinned against the wall. Perhaps if you weren’t so hazed by the pure pleasure, you’d find the position humiliating. Your body writhes against the wall as your orgasm closes in, juices spilling over the bare muscles of his thighs.

“This… this is the best you’ve looked in awhile,” he praises and you take it like an ardent admission of love.


	7. Dimitri, Biting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This can also be read [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/post/188196375993/kinktober-7-biting-dimitri)!

“Dima!” you gasp as his fingers wind through your hair and tug your head to the side, exposing the side of your neck to him. 

His movements and rough and sloppy, wet, open-mouthed kisses painted along your skin until his teeth finally catch. Your eyes shut, body caged between the wall and his imposing figure as you struggle to make sense of the situation. It’s nearly impossible to clear the fog that’s settled over your mind, a lust-filled, confused haze that makes you pliant in his grip.

He doesn’t reply to your small cry, mouth much too busy. Your hands frantically reach up to grab his shoulders, clinging to his furred cape. For the seventh time this week, you anguish and ponder over what he’s become. Where’s your sweet Dima gone? You recall a time where he’d bashfully smile and blush at the slightest gesture of affection, when his hand would rest so close to yours, fingers just barely brushing together.

His teeth graze against the crook of your neck and clamp down a moment later, shocking a moan from you. Your thoughts dim, the rest of the world growing dark in comparison to his hulking form pressed tight to yours, to the teeth which bite and mark again and again. Your fingers curl, head lolling to the side.

“Dima,” you say, voice nearly a whisper. Heart and hand trembling, you cup his cheek and draw his face from your body, coaxing him to look at you. You’re not sure what your expression reflects, but the corners of his mouth draw tight downwards and he pushes away from your fingers, this time pressing a small kiss where your jaw meets your ear.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice buckles, and finally you glimpse the vulnerability beneath his cold, bloodthirsty veneer. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’s finally starting to open up. You dare to wonder if he’ll go back to the way he was, to sheepish little smiles over tea, to stolen moments in between classes.

He shakily breathes against your skin. A bouquet of florid colors doubtlessly blooms on your complexion, painted by his teeth, his tongue, his fingers.


	8. Julian Devorak, Grinding

The room is dimly, but warmly lit. a lamp stands alone in the corner, and Julian’s hazed, unfocused eyes stare at the stained-glass shade as his lips open around gasps and moans. The pillow he clutches close smells like you, and the shirt he has bunched in his left hand also smells like you. It’s inappropriate, he thinks, to delight in such ardent pleasures while you’re not here. 

The mere thought of your temporary absence makes his heart throb. His eyes shut and he buries his face into the soft fabric, inhaling deeply. It takes his mind away from the longing, makes him forget how far away you are.

He bucks his hips into your pillow to cloud his thoughts, chase the negativity away. Pleasure smolders his body like incense rolls through a room, soothing and soft. His face presses tight to your pillow, rutting his hardened cock against another wedged between his legs. When are you going to come home?

(In two days, but that might as well be an eternity away, for all he cares.)

Your name leaves his lips as a torrid little whine, his body curled, gangly limbs curled desperately around what he has left of you. The friction is delicious against his cock, and the steady rhythm he’s developed just about shatters, lost to thoughts of your smiles, the warmth in your eyes, the feel of your hands holding his hips tight. 

His eyes shut, purposefully darkening the world to you and only you. Your thighs settled atop his lap, his throat squeezed so delectably by your hands. The muscles of his thighs twitch as he inches himself closer and closer, guided by the memory of your voice, whispering praise into his ear like the kindest of benedictions. His skin blotched with warmth, a careening mess of hastily sought pleasure.

His cock throbs, his orgasm mere seconds away—

And then he stops. His grip on your shirt tightens until his knuckles go white, and he desperately brings the garment to his face, taking a deep inhale. Another shudder is sent down his spine as the arousal dulls down to a low simmer. In his mind, he paints a vivid picture. Your expression smug as you lift off his cock, denying him for perhaps the third or fourth time. He misses that, he misses you.

The mattress creaks underneath him as he turns to lay on his back, head craning to look at the calendar. It feels like an eternity since he’s seen you. 

You’ve only been gone for a single day.


	9. X'rhun Tia, Pet Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can also read this on my tumblr, found [HERE](https://owlespresso.tumblr.com/). I upload there faster and more frequently. I also have headcanon lists there that I don't ever post here!

“X’rhun,” you sigh, pressing your face against his thigh. Your arms wrap around his leg. The cloth of his pants rubs against your bare skin. 

Your nipples harden against the fabric, breath hitching when you feel a slight tug on your collar.

X’rhun’s gloved fingers tease the back of your neck before sliding around to cup your jawline, thumb rubbing over your cheek.

“Were you well-behaved today, pet?” he purrs, voice a low growl. His eyelids dip low and languid, though his excitement is betrayed by the way his tail lashes behind him, occasionally flickering into sight. The leash fastened to your collar is loosely held by his other hand, and the mere sight of it makes you grind your thighs together in hopes of quelling the arousal that’s been mounting all day.

“Yes,” you nod urgently, looking up at him with wide, pleading eyes. You lower your arms, hands resting on your knees. 

“Good pet,” he praises and you melt under it. He runs his fingers through your hair and you nuzzle into the touch, greedy for any scrap of affection he has to give, “Come along. I think you deserve a reward after being all alone,” with that, he walks around you, leash still clutched tight in his hand.

The floor is cool against your hands and knees as you travel on all fours behind him, rubbing your side against his leg, seeking out any iota of contact. The living room is a large but cozily-decorated room. The couch rests in front of the coffee table, flanked by two arm chairs. You remain on your knees, appreciating the softness of the carpet as he plops down on the couch, reaching to one of the side tables to grab a newspaper, or magazine.

He even drops your leash on the cushions next to him. 

“I think I’ve earned a bit of a respite after the long day I had,” he remarks, opening the pages. His face is hidden from you, which makes you pout. You waited all day for him to come home, andn now he’s not even going to pay attention to you!? In a sudden rush of boldness, your hands perch on his knees. Before you can try to inch them apart, he spread them for you. You’re greeted by the sight of a very obvious tent in his pants, and your aggravation slips away from you like sand through your fingers, “Do you think you could take care of that for me, little one?”

He doesn’t even have to ask. You reach for the belt around his waist, scurrying to undo it. Your fingertips gently drum against the silver buckle as it drops flimsily against the couch. The pretty buttons on his striking, red pants come neck. Your fingers grasp the waistband and tug down. The newspaper briefly crinkles when he flips to the next page.

There’s an obvious tent in his boxers and the sight of it makes you lick your lips. It takes you not a single second before you’ve grasped and pulled it down, letting his cock pop free from the confines of the cloth.

Already hard and standing tall. Your tongue swept over your lips, pupils dilated as you finally leaned forward.

You gave the tip a few kitten licks while one of your hands gently wrapped around the middle of the length, squeezing, but not pumping, just testing the waters to see how much you can get away with teasing him.

Unbidden, his hand rested on your head, fingers curling into your hair and lightly pulling. It’s combined with a brief tug on your leash. The faint forcefulness makes you sigh in pleasure, following wherever he wants to lead you.

“I think you should save the teasing for later, pet,” he said, voice deep and saturated with barely restrained need. No fun! You’d wanted to drive him up the wall by teasing him, but it seemed he was rather impatient today. It wasn’t a good idea to tease him, not when he made it clear that he was already wound up.

So, you wrapped your lips around the head and began your gentle descent downwards, tongue playing over the bottom of his cock. Your hands rested on his knees as you continued to slide forward. The loose grip he had on your hair tightened as a moan rumbled deep in his chest.

“Good,” he sighed, fingers affectionate rubbing behind your ears, petting your hair. You flourished under the praise, determined to hear more. Those few words of praise did very little to mitigate your desire. He would give you the attention you so craved! He would put down that newspaper and look at you, and only you! 

Perhaps it was a little childish to be envious of an inanimate object, but that envy was what allowed you take him in entirely, nose flush to his pelvis. In a daring move, you hallowed your cheeks out and began to suck, bobbing your head up and down in an immediate and merciless pace. The ache between your thighs grew hotter and hotter with every little noise you pulled from him, grip on his knees tightening.

Oh, how you wished you could see his face. You could just imagine him, eyes low-lidded, cheeks blooming florid reds and pinks. 

His dick throbbed hot in your mouth and the sweet taste of pre-cum served to inflate your pride. He was this close already? How long had he wanted this? Had he been thinking of you all day, longing for you while he was so busy at work?

You didn’t get the chance to drive him deeper into the throes of pleasure. He yanked you from his cock, causing you to give a surprised shout. The newspaper was dropped to his side, finally revealing his flushed face. His pupils had swallowed the brilliant color of his irises, lips slightly parted, expression contorted with voracious hunger. One of his fangs peeked out over his lip. 

“You’ve worked so hard for me, little pet,” X’rhun sighs. He gives another small tug on the leash, urging you to your feet, “Hard enough to earn a reward, I suspect. Come closer.” 

Needing no further prompting, you clamber to your feet, a vulture to a fresh kill.


	10. Caduceus Clay, Cockwarming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've had these posted on tumblr for MONTHS but never put 'em here. Bitches are LATE. (I am bitches)

There’s something so impossibly comfortable about being nestled under the blankets, pressed to the softness of the mattress. Your eyes shut, the world around you silent with the exception of the leaves rustling against the wind, just outside the window. The autumn chill cannot touch you. You’re thoroughly sheltered, shielded by your sheets and the warm body behind you.

Long arms are curled around your waist, soft fur pressed against your bare beck. You sigh and nuzzle further into the plush comfort, only for your eyes to open wide as the cock buried inside you twitched with renewed interest. Burgeoning arousal makes you give a little whine, and the embrace tightens.

“Hey,” Caduceus murmurs in your ear, presses a small kiss to your neck. His dick remains soft, warm and comfortable inside you.

“Hey,” you mumble, reaching a hand back in search of him. Your hand awkwardly pats his shoulder before dropping to your side, “You wanna eat dinner soon?”

“In a little while,” one of his hands smooths down your side, encouraging you to relax, to stay languid, “You’re too warm and comfortable to leave,” his shameless admission causes your cheeks to burn, basking underneath affection much too like the sun.

“I guess that’s fine, then,” it doesn’t take much coaxing for you to concede. Leaving such heavenly warmth would just about destroy you. Why roam outside when you’re nestled in a nest of love, deeper into the forelsket than you thought possible.


	11. Dabi, Omegaverse

“I know how it feels.”

You recognize Dabi by the smell of him. Aggressive, burnt firewood. A scent that spreads across the room in a show of unbidden, unspoken assertiveness. The slow timbre of his voice makes you stiffen, shoulders squared in an effort to look bigger than you really are. His very presence pressed all over the room, sticks to the lone couch, and makes the corners of your lips arch downwards in displeasure.

In the handful of conversations you’ve had with him, he’s made his interest in you painfuly clear. Your hand clutches the handle of your mug as you glance idly over your shoulder, attempting to look disinterested as possible.

You suppose this is what you get for wanting five minutes to yourself. Lock the door, next time.

“How it feels?” you’re reluctant to even engage in conversation, but you also know he won’t leave if you ignore him. The floorboards creak under every step he takes forward, and the sound nearly sends a shiver up your spine. Go, leave, run, your instincts shriek, but the small, makeshift lounge behind the bar only has one door—the one he’s entered through and is still stood in front of. He looks you up and down, appraising. You can’t tell if he likes what he sees, but you’re not in the mood to care.

“To be different—and feared for it,” the smoked rasp of his voice nearly sends a shiver down your spine, “To be isolated for it.”

“Yeah,” every iota of your being tells you to not turn your back on him, so you mirror his haughty posture, arms crossed, head tilted, expression impassive. Don’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction—don’t even think he’s here because he actually cares about anything you have to say, “What about it?”

“You don’t have to be so defensive here,” he says, but his smirk widens and does nothing to soothe your nerves, “We at the League don’t discriminate,” he kicks away from the door and takes a single step forward. The vibrant blues of his eyes fixate on you, like a predator ready to rip its teeth into a toppled gazelle’s haunches. Just the pure weight of his gaze drives the breath from your lungs, “Not on quirk,” another step. Move, move, your instincts howl, but you stay rooted, “Not on age or financial status.”

He’s not a foot away from you, and he continues to approach with every raspy word.

“We take all the shitty little misfits—young, old, straight, gay, alpha,” you suck in a deep breath as he settles in front of you. One of his hands presses to the desk behind you, effectively caging you in. You barely hold back a shiver, the omega in you urging you to press yourself forward and double back at the exact same time, senses in a tizzy as his scent wraps around you, “omega.”

Your hands curl into fists.

“Even people who were once on the wrong side,” his voice dips lower, quieter. You can see every line of scarring, every silver staple and how they glint under the overhead lighting, “I know you didn’t fit in at UA ‘cause you saw their lip service for what it was… and I imagine they still have a habit of shoving folks like you into support roles,” your eyes widen. His smirk depeends, smugness palpable in his smirk and the way he throws his scent around so carelessly, “It’s fine by me. We’re all human. We all make mistakes.”

“I don’t know what you’re getting at, but I’m gonna need you to take a few steps back,” that’s a lie. You know he’s here to unnerve you, to throw your background in your face. How did he even know you once attended UA? The implications that come with his knowledge make your skin crawl. Had he been… asking about you? Doing a background check? Your lips begin to curl back to make a show of your fangs. The aggression catches him by surprise, but he doesn’t move.

The glands on your neck throb, agitated at the closeness. Anger burgeons and twists inside you, driving your hands up to his shoulders to push him away, away, away—

He stumbles a few steps back, smirk reigned back into his usual, impassive expression.

“Just understand your place, rookie,” the amusement that colored his voice lapses into lofty, detached arrogance, “Do your job and earn your keep, or just be kindling for the rest of us.”

The dark expanse of his cloak twirls with him as he turns away, heading towards the door. Your breath stays still in your lungs, desperately waiting for the door to shut behind him.

He pauses, one foot still inside.

“I look forward to working with you.”


	12. Magnai Oronir, Creampie

You wonder how you got here. Your skin awash with bouquets of purples and reds, the slope and curve of your hips a place for his hands to take hold and perch. There’s no way to embellish the act as something grandiose, something to be mistaken for a gesture of love. Every thrust of his hips seems another declaration of war, every low snarl arousing you but doing nothing more.

Magnai’s sun-rimmed irises glow with something fervent, his calloused hands wanting, wanting, wanting as they hold, push, and pull. Pleasure rolls over you like a fresh wave eroding feeble sand, unable to do naught but feel.

“This will be sufficient tribute,” he breathes against your collarbone. He said that the last time, and the time before, “The sun will reward you well for this,” the ardor in his voice is for what he imagines you to be, not what you actually are, “My nhaama, my nhaama—you still plague my every thought after you leave.”

“Nhaama,” he moans, and his hip tremble. The firm muscle of his abdomen shivers, “Nhaama, one day you’ll bear my young, be a mother to our children,” he’s trying to reassure himself, because he knows his words do not reach you, do not sway you to stay. 

You don’t think about it. Instead, you think about his calloused palms, the slide of his cock in and out of your wanting cunt, walls squeezing him as though they never want him to leave. 

You don’t grant him an answer. All you do is clutch the round of his broad shoulders and shut your eyes as he hurtles over the brink of his orgasm, hot cum filling you for the third time this night. 

Tomorrow morning, he will begrudgingly watch you take the preventative tincture with faint disapproval and something more sorrowful. He won’t say anything, but will say it loudly at the same time.


	13. Mollymauk, Striptease

Each roll and twine of his body is another shrill siren’s call. Each inch of lavender flesh revealed another claw buried in your flank to drag you under the surface. The loud music fades as though you’re under water, entranced by the sway of round ass, the curve of his tail. 

He works his magic up and down the poles every night, winks at customers and arches his back, his sculpted form writhing with pleasure under all the attention. His arms stretch above his head, knees wide open, bulge painfully apparent inside his sequined costume. His eyelashes flutter and his plump lips curl around compliments and praises, grateful little “thank yous” as onlookers shove bills into his waistband. 

Perhaps you should be jealous, but you find that hard when you’re the only one he looks to for genuine pleasure. After his mascara has started to run and his body aches from contorting, he relies on you to take him home and help him bathe, to feed him.

It’s your hands that press against his back and massage out all the knots. You’re the one who makes him sigh and moan, face pressed against the covers.

—And it’s you who puts on the strap, fucks him within an inch of his damn life. Your hand presses his face against the blankets, or the carpet, while your hips slam against his ass. He wiggles and moans and cries.

“I love you!” he gasps, “Oh, fuck—darling, please—”


	14. Shower/Bath, Dimitri

The smell of sweet lavender does well to help you ignore Dimitri’s mardy pout. Your fingers tread through his sleek, blond locks and he tilts his head back into it. The grime of the day washes away under your gentle attention, loyally and unmistakenly focused on the weary man resting in between your legs. His head lays on your chest, his back to your front. 

The tub is big enough for the both of you. He could scramble off your lap like an affronted cat if he so pleased, stay at the opposite end as far from you as possible. His conscious decision to stay so close and vulnerable means more to you than words can ever say. When was the last time he’d been this close to someone, especially without his armor? Without that spear clutched to his side like a lover.

You only move your hands away from him after his hair is completely clean.

“Beautiful,” you murmur, hands resting on his shoulders where you begin to knead, fingers rubbing the knots out of tense, broad muscle. His skin is flushed a hearty shade of amaranthine. You remain like that for as long as you can, desperate to cling onto the feeling of his body slotted so perfectly against your own. 

“Hmm,” his voice rumbles in his chest and the sound coaxes your eyes clothes, body fully relaxing into the waters. 

The feeling of his body shifting startles you, a hand flying to grip the edge of the bath as he turns himself over. He buries his face into the crook of your neck, tongue beginning to idly trace over marks left there previously. 

“I was so careless,” he sighs against your skin. The pain is palpable in his voice, quiet and demure, such a far cry from his usual fantod. It’s an improvement, you know, but you still hate to hear him hurt. One of his calloused hands strokes down your side, “Please. Let me make it up to you.”

Your breath hitches when you feel his cock press against your lower thigh. 

“You don’t have to,” you soothe, lest he think he’s obligated, “You don’t owe it to me,” everything you’ve done for him has been because you love him, because you’ve wanted to. The last thing you want is for him to feel cornered into returning your affections.

“I want to,” he breathes, hand coming to rest on your thigh. The sentiment touches you more than any touch he could ever give. The tension eases out of your shoulders and you allow yourself to lay back, splayed out and easy for the taking.

His lips blaze a trail of kisses away from your neck, down to your chest. Goosebumps raise along your skin, your trembling fingers rising to clutch onto his shoulders. His one eye is low-lidded, lips slightly parted around warm breaths. Does he know how handsome he is? You suddenly find it very tempting to tell him.

His tongue lavishes over the marks he’d left a few days ago, most of which had already started healing. I’m sorry, each broad swathe of his tongue says, I didn’t mean to hurt you. He begs for forgiveness which you’ve given him from the very start.

Your heart jumps in your chest. A mixture of heady arousal and sheepishness makes your cheeks warm, and your chest warmer.

“Okay,” you whisper, and his fingers dive in between your legs.


	15. Ardyn Izunia, Overstimulation

“Surely, you must have known this would happen,” Ardyn purrs, golden eyes gleaming in the dark. You struggle to grasp your own thoughts, coherency thoroughly shaken by his ardent attempts to rob you of it, “How am I supposed to give you up when you presented yourself so easily?” he punctuates the question by rubbing a calloused hand down up your side to squeeze your breast.

It’s rough and it borders on pain, but you arch your back into it regardless, feeling your hips twinge where he’d once been gripping them. 

Cum drips onto the sheets, brain turned to mush under the four consecutive orgasms he’s put you through. Where’s his refractory period? Where—

He thrusts again, forcing a squeal from your bite-swollen lips. Your fingers curl around the sheets, caught between trying to press closer and scramble away as his cock pins you in place. The molten gold of his eyes roams over your face, your chest, over the meadow of marks blooming across your debauched, exhausted body.

“You’ll give me one more, won’t you?” he coos in a way that lets you know he’s asking for not one, but three. The pads of his fingers again latch onto your hips, tugging you down the bed to meet each brutal thrust. His pelvis brushes up against your hypersensitive clit every time your bodies meet, making you whine and writhe helplessly on the sheets. Tears well up in your eyes, making it difficult to see, let alone process the look on his face.

Your voice has been rubbed raw from crying out his name. The back of your throat aches, but you mewl nonetheless, long past capable of any restraint. His salacious interpolations have all but drained the strength from your body. He doesn’t seem to mind doing all the work for you, holding you up, dragging you back and forth to help you roll your hips.

His stubble briefly brushes against your neck when he pecks your sweat-slicked skin, another overwhelming sensation to add to the pile as you cum yet again, the breath knocked out of your lungs. Your eyes shut, vision flickering in and out as you struggle to comprehend the way your body feels, try to decide whether you want to wiggle away or press closer.

“Good girl,” he sighs, voice so decidedly distant despite your tight closeness.


	16. Lon'qu, Sleepy Sex

You sigh and shudder, caught in the cottony space between sleep and wakefulness. A peculiar place, one where you can feel the sheets bundled around your skin, feel your head tucked so kindly against the pillow. Yet, the hefty weight of your unconsciousness threatens to bog you down still.

A soft, low voice sighs your name. 

As though given permission, your eyes flutter open. The darkness in the room greets you, like a velvety cloth tied around your face. Everything fuzzies, muddled by your drowsy state and oh—the gentle press of fingers against your already moist cunt.

“Lon’qu,” you gasp. One of your hands clumsily reaches down, fingers twining into his dark, thick tresses. Calloused fingertips jitter anxiously against your inner thigh, a puff of his breath against your folds making you jump in his grasp. Light fingertips brush against your soaked slit, making your hips wiggle, body tremble as you struggle between wakefulness and slumber, in and out of the murky waters.

His face nuzzles into the left side of your body, pressed against your hip as he works a single finger deep inside you. A heady moan shakes against your skin.

The bed creaks and the sound of cloth writhing against cloth at first bewilders you. Only when his soft pants grow deeper do you realize he’s grinding his hips against the mattress. His deep-seated desperation makes further warmth bloom in between your legs as he fucks you with his fingers. Your hips twitch, sighing and whining as he slowly, steadily brings in a second. Sleep still tugs at the edges of your mind and you start to let it take you.

Then his thumb brushes against your clit and you squeal, hips rolling, back arching. 

“Fuck,” he curses under his breath. Hearing him talk during the throes of ecstasy is a rare pleasure, one you try to cling onto as he curls his fingers inside of you. 

“Lon’qu!” you shut your eyes tight, voice pitched and desperate as one of his strong, strong arms lays across your left thigh, pinning you tight to the mattress to the best of his abilities. You look your right leg clumsily around his side, ankle digging into his back in a mindless attempt to bring him closer.

The softness of the mattress is there to embrace you when you fall back down, blankets bunched around you like a loving cocoon. His pace slows and quickens, a vicious, alternating cycle that drags you in and out of sleep, coddled in a place between slumber and complete wakefulness. You’re not sure what time it is, if you should be going back to sleep anytime soon, but your coherency vanished behind the same veil of drowsiness.

You’re blank to all but the pull of your pleasure as he drives you to orgasm, folds glistening, hips trembling as you spill out onto his hand. He sighs into your thigh, rests his hot forehead there. His curly bangs lightly tickle your skin. You reach trembling fingers down to absentmindedly comb through his hair, so delightfully sated, so grateful.

The afterglow is enough to haze you back into a peaceful slumber, your last thought being how you’ll have pay him back, later.


	17. Mollymauk Tealeaf, Cunnilingus

The broad slope of his shoulders provides your thighs with a place to rest. You don’t think you’ll ever truly understand the true scope of Mollymauk’s iridescent beauty. An outstanding rainbow of colors and shades coats his lilac skin. His gleaming ruby eyes, which you would look at and admire every minute of every day if his face weren’t currently buried against your wet cunt.

“Molly, Molly,” you repeat his name like a worshipful mantra, wholly and completely unprepared to receive his unadulterated limerence. 

His skilled, forked tongue dives in between your folds, savoring your cunt like the sweetest of treats. Your fingers curl into the sheets, eyes low-lidded, struggling to stay open as he lavishes you with affection. His sculpted arms are curled around your thighs, holding you tight to the bed as you arch your back and wiggle.

He’s unashamed, unabashed, the lewd sounds of his lovemaking the only noise in the room.


	18. Libra, Body Worship

He wonders if this is wrong, as he cradles your hand in his own and presses his lips to your palm. He wonders why the scriptures he’s been buried under for so long never taught him. 

They never taught him how dangerous the depths of human emotion could be, he thinks, trailing his lips up your arm, one of his hands sweeping over the plane of your abdomen. You shiver and he feels it as his grip settles on your hip. He squeezes, nimble digits mindlessly stroling across your skin. 

“Libra,” you say, voice quiet, as though breaking the silence too severely will spell certain disaster. The mere sound of his name makes him exhale heavily, blessed by the noise. He wonders why you give him more than the clergy ever could, how you make him feel so much more. His ear settles next to your chest. The sound of your heartbeat lulls and distracts him. His throbbing cock is left untouched, settled against his thigh.

Until you lift your knee and gently, oh so gently brush against it. His eyes open and he gasps, before huffing out a short laugh.

“Forgive me, my dearest. I simply wish to give you the attention you deserve,” he journeys further down the mattress, knees sliding over the soft blankets. You’d likely washed them this morning. Yet something else to worship you for. 

His calloused palms settled over your hips, lips trailing kisses over your bare stomach as he slid off the bed. His knees touched the carpeted floor, face level with your wet cunt. 

His cheek nestled against your inner thigh, his other hand coming up to grasp your hip. Perhaps it was sadistic of him to enjoy the way you wiggled closer, desperate for anything he had to give. 

He’d grown used to living on his knees, fingers curled tight together in prayer. So many hours, days spent in feeble worship of a goddess who would never heed his calls. So much time searching for purpose, for a calling that would truly make him happy. 

To think, all he’d ever needed was finally underneath him. His fingers slid to the undersides of your thighs, lifting them over his shoulders as his touch finally began to near where you wanted him most. Your back arched off the bed, elbows digging into the bed, trying to clamber closer. It was tempting to pin you down and force you to withstand another few moments of teasing—ahem, worship, but he couldn’t find it in himself to resist you.

His lips press tight over your clit, tongue rasping over the soft bundle of nerves. The bed creaks noisily as you jump, hips bucking upwards. Libra dives into you with refined eagerness, desperate to make you feel the full girandole of his admiration and love.


	19. Emet-Selch, Titfucking

Impossibly lewd. Emet Selch’s cock drags up and down your chest, coddled in between your breasts. Your eyes stick to the tip as it emerged and disappears with each thrust of his hips. Stood before you, looming over like a grand monument, his face is carved deep with pleasure. His eyes are shut tight, lips parted around soft sighs and languid moans.

“I must say, you’re more well-behaved than I thought you’d be,” even his praise is backhanded. He looks at you through haughty, barely opened eyes. You can just barely glimpse the molten gold of his irises, and the fervency of his gaze nearly freezes you in place.

Despite the anger that boils underneath your skin at his arrogance, you press your chest tighter together, bouncing up and down on your knees to quicken the pace. The friction increases and his hips shudder, a telltale sign of approaching orgasm.

“Oh? That easy?” you raise an eyebrow at him, lips curled back in both a smile and a snarl. He scoffs, but it turns to a broken little noise when you pause in your rhythm to rasp your tongue over his tip. Emet Selch draws in a shuddering breath, quieting for now. Likely scrambling to regain his composure.

You don’t let him.

His gloved hands reach to brace himself against the close by table. His attempts to regain his composure are hapless, because there’s no hiding the redness of his cheeks, the way his eyelashes flutter under the sudden onslaught of pleasure. There’s clear desperation in the way he thrusts his hips and tilts his head back, lips gifting you with euphonious sounds. 

And then you stop. You drop your hands and stand up, not bothering to hide your smirk when his eyes jolt wide open. He gapes at you for a sliver of a moment, before his lips curl into a sardonic grin, attempting to hide his all too visible frustration.

“A minx on top of it all,” he drawls, “I wonder how your little friends would feel if they could see you now,” his gaze drifts down, to where some of his pre-cum is still smeared across your chest. He takes a step forward, arms outstretched, as though expecting you to swiftly return to them.

“You can get there yourself,” you inform him, walking over to the bed to grab your bra and shirt, shrugging the garments on as quickly as possible. On your way out, you give him a cursory glance, only to find that his lips are downturned in frown, eyebrows furrowed in a sharp scowl. Ah. Had you really made him that angry? You roll your eyes, paying him next to no mind until you’re already halfway out the door.

“I guess I’m not as well-behaved as you thought I’d be.”


	20. Percy de Rolo, Tentacles

You like to think you’re not a quitter.

But perhaps, you should have been this time.

“Percy?” your voice trembles as a tendril of slickened shadow slides up your calf. The whites and irises of his eyes are obscured by inky blackness. A steady stream of dark smoke rolls from his mouth like breaths on a cold winter’s morning. There is no sun above your heads, only the cracked ceiling of the abandoned church. Your lungs shake as he nears. The shade that billows from the center of his body grows palpable the closer he gets.

You taste in on your tongue, inhale it, immersed in him or whatever he has become.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and his voice sounds the way it always has. This is your Percy, you comfort yourself as a cold hand draws up your side, touch driving another shiver up your spine. Another dark limb extends to your torso, brushes aside the tattered cloth that once made up your shirt. The texture is like leather, spreading goosebumps across your already chilled skin. It returns to twine around one of your breasts, the very tip brushing against your nipple.

A third tentacle joins the fray, sliding up your other thigh. Your shaking hands reach up to cup his cheeks and find that they too are as frigid as the rest of him. His eyes are inky black, glazed and glassy. There’s the faintest dust of amantharine on his cheeks, and his eyelashes dip low when your thumbs rub soothing circles into his skin.

One of the slick tips gently presses against your folds and you gasp, hips instinctually bucking.

“Percy!” you squeal. Your grip on him unconsciously tightens as it roams up and down your slit, two matching tendrils keeping you tight to the floor.

“Hush, hush sweetling,” Percy reaches a hand up, cups your cheek to cradle your head. His lips press to your temple, down to your other cheek and to your jaw, attempting to distract you from the bizarreness of the situation, “It’s going to be alright.”

You trust him, you remind yourself, willing your wary body to relax under his ministrations. It’s difficult. You’ve never seen anything like this, never experienced it, but Percy wouldn’t hurt you. Percy will treat you well. 

It becomes a mantra you repeat as he brings his lips to yours, his hand moving down to curl around your jaw, urging your lips open, eager to savor every inch of you.

At the same time, it’s oh so difficult to ignore the shadowy limbs encompassing your legs. They give your thighs a brief squeeze as the tentacle rasps a clean path up your sopping cunt, causing you to shudder. It’s not as cold as before. They’re warming up, perhaps due to the shared body heat? You don’t get much of a chance to think on it as the tip rolls against your clit, teasing the bundle of nerves in a circular pattern that has your head thrown back against the floor. 

Your head, much to your surprise, doesn’t meet tile. Another, thicker tendril rests behind you, acting as a makeshift pillow. 

“Just relax,” Percy urged, trailing kisses up your jaw, obscuring your vision of what was happening below. The tendril now gently poked and prodded at your entrance, making you twitch and writhe as it finally began to slide inside. Your walls hugged around it as it plunged deep within, already lubricated via some manner of magic you never hoped to comprehend. Above you, Percy made a choked noise, his eyes shut, lips parted around heavy pants.

You were given hardly a moment to comprehend his reaction before your entire body was forced down by the tendrils securing your arms and legs, moving in tandem with the one stationed in between your legs. You gave a surprised cry that melted into pure, lascivious pleasure as it fucked you, dragging you up and down the stone floor. 

Your cries and wails echoed off the domed roof, the painted saints and cherubs and harps looking back down at you but offering you no shield from the debauchery. 

“I love you,” Percy says, pleads as he kisses your chest, the words nearly lost to you as you steep deeper and deeper into that pleasure. The smoke rolls off of him faster, with more abundance and you’re unafraid to breathe it in, immerse yourself in him and whatever he has become.

His teeth bite your collarbone and make a painting of your shoulders and neck, a kaleidoscope of veritable colors and sensations and things you love and are scared of. Your eyes shut as the inescapable heat drags you under, the tentacle so dedicated to teasing your clit pressing harder, pushing you over the edge and into a void as black and deep as Percy’s smoke.


End file.
